


A Most Peculiar Date

by JQ37



Category: She Loves Me - Bock/Harnick/Masteroff
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, these kids could have made this a really short show if they'd just chilled out for like a second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:43:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JQ37/pseuds/JQ37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Georg has his epiphany several scenes early and Amalia has a surprisingly good time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Most Peculiar Date

There comes a point in every flirtation with willful self-delusion where you have to make a choice: admit or commit. Admit that you’ve been lying to yourself and deal with the fallout, whatever it may be, or fully commit to the lie and ride it straight to your own personal hell.

For Georg, that moment is when he walks into the Cafe Imperiale and sees Amalia, nervously preening and in possession of a copy of Anna Karenina with a rose poking out of the top and he picks option B. 

Or he at least tries to pick option B. Ladislav intercepts his hasty exit all “You’re just gonna leave here there?” and “This can’t be a coincidence,.” and “Have you ever _tried_ being in love with her?”

He wants to answer “That’s the plan” and “Yes it can be,” but the third question stops him because no, no he hasn’t tried being in love with her. He hasn’t even tried being friendly to her which, now that he thinks about it, is strange because she gets along just fine with everyone else in the shop and she’s always graceful with handling even the most difficult of customers and, if he’s being honest–

Option B. Commit. _Commit_.  

If he’s being honest, none of that matters because why should he have to be the one to try being friendly? Maybe he’s in the wrong but if that’s true then she’s just as in the wrong because she hasn’t exactly been going around trying to play nice.

“Not true,” says his brain, traitorously. “She did try. Today at the shop.”

He’s annoyed to realize that that’s the truth. She hadn’t rubbed his recent unemployment in his face. She’d reacted to the news with surprise. Disappointment even. And he’d yelled at her and stormed out.

“Talk to her,” Ladislav urges and, even as he opens the cafe door to comply, Georg clings to his commitment.

 _She’ll just prove me right,_ he says to himself, sticking to the story that he’s only entering the cafe to make a point. _I’ll be nice to her and she’ll prove me right._

He tucks the rose and letter in his jacket pocket and walks towards Amalia’s table again, this time in such a way that she’s sure to see him.

She spots him almost instantly and recoils as if she’s been shocked, pulling a face like she’s stepped in something wet and slimy with her brand new shoes.

Georg almost shreds the letter then and he can feel a cutting remark rising in his throat but Ladislav’s words ring in his mind and he instead raises his hands in the universal symbol for truce.

“Relax Ms. Balash,” he improvises. “I’m not here to fight. I come bearing gifts.”

“I never trust a Greek bearing gifts,” she shoots back, immediately and so what if he finds the jab kind of clever? That doesn’t mean anything.

“I’m hardly a Greek. But the gift isn’t from me anyhow.” He produces the letter from his jacket pocket with a flourish and pretends not to notice that her body suddenly goes rigid, even though her face stays cool and dispassionate. “It’s from a young man I passed in the street.”

“A young man?” Her fingers twitch like she wants to grab the letter from him but she steadies them.

Georg nods. “He said he was sorry to keep such a good friend waiting but–”

“A good friend?” She interrupts, question clear in her voice.

“Yes.”

“Were those his exact words? ‘A good friend’?”

He taps his chin like he’s trying to recall this imaginary conversation. “You know. Now that you mention it, no. His exact words were ‘I’m sorry to keep such a dear friend waiting.’”

Georg nudges the envelope towards her again and, this time, she snatches it up, rips it open, and begins speed-reading the letter.

It’s a beautifully written letter. He figured it would have to be for him to get away with standing up Dear Friend at the last minute after all those months of buildup. And it seems like it’s having its desired effect. He can see the emotions flashing across her face in double-time. Confusion, surprise, understanding, relief. She refolds the letter, closes her eyes, and presses it against her chest briefly.  

And then she seems to remember that Georg is standing there, watching her, and he’s surprised to find that he feels a pang of disappointment as he sees her raise her defenses again.

“Thank you for the delivery Mr. Nowack,” she says, voice clipped and overly polite. “Now, if you don’t mind–”

“Ms. Balash,” he interrupts, determined to get in a word before her walls are all the way up. “Earlier today, after I got…” He can’t say the word ‘fired’. It’s still too raw a wound. “Before I left, you made an attempt at being civil and I snapped at you. I shouldn’t have done that and I want to apologize.”

She looks at him with well-earned suspicion. Waiting for the jab that renders the whole sentiment insincere, searching for the double meaning meant to hurt her, but she doesn’t detect a hint of sarcasm or spitefulness so she takes a more direct tactic.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you apologizing all of a sudden?”

“I–” Why was he apologizing? That wasn’t in the plan. The plan was to come in, get yelled at, and leave with the smug satisfaction that he’d been right about Ms. Balash all along and now he was…apologizing to her? Gauging her emotional response with interest? Choosing his next words carefully?

“I’m apologizing because I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I guess I always thought we’d mend fences at work eventually but,” he shrugs. “I guess I was wrong. So I’m apologizing now.”

She stares at him for a few more moments and then says, somewhat hesitantly, “I was being sincere before. I didn’t want you to get fired. Mr. Maraczek was being very unfair. I always thought so, even when we were fighting.”

When we were fighting, Georg catches. Were, past tense. So are they done with the fighting now? Why does he hope that the answer is yes?

He realizes that he’s staring and Amalia looks uncomfortable so he quickly responds. “Thank you Ms. Balash.” And that’s all he can think to say. There’s no precedent for this. He hasn’t had a conversation with Amalia that didn’t devolve into disagreement within moments before. He doesn’t know what the right thing to say is and, suddenly, he care _a lot_ about saying the right thing.

“Umm…I…” He gestures to the door in a moment of mild panic. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” He turns towards the door, mentally hitting himself for resorting to the hasty exit twice in one night ( _with the same woman_ ) when Amalia’s voice stops him.

“Mr. Nowack, wait.” When he turns back, he sees that she’s gesturing to the empty chair opposite her own. “Stay. Have a glass of wine. You need it more than I do tonight.”

He doesn’t want to push his luck. “It’s OK. You don’t have to–”

“I know I don’t have to. But I’d rather not be alone right now and it’s a good a time as any to take our newfound cordiality for a spin. Besides,” she says, pouring him a very generous glass of wine. “I want to pump you for information about the man who delivered the letter.”  

“Ah, yes.” He takes a long sip of wine. “You know, I didn’t get that great of a look at him.”

“You were close enough for him to hand you a letter.”

“Yes. But, it was very dark.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on Mr. Nowack. You must have seen something.”

“I don’t know,” he says carefully. “He was a guy. Pretty average looking. Nothing notable.” She looks like she’s going to push and he doesn’t want to continue down this path so he adds, “In my defense, I was a little preoccupied with my own problems at the time.”

She shrinks back a bit, almost embarrassed. “Oh, I’m being insensitive. How are you feeling?”

“Blindsided,” he answers. “One moment he’s treating me like his son almost and the next it’s all yelling and screaming for months and I’m unemployed for the first time in fifteen years.”

“Very Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde,” Amalia agrees.

“Stevenson!” says Georg in surprise. “Are you a fan?” And as the words fall from his lips, he finally has to admit it. He’s at a cafe, drinking wine, talking to her about books. This is exactly what he had planned for his evening with Dear Friend. This is a date. He’s on a date with Ms. Balash.

And he’s _enjoying_ it.  

She’s saying something about curiosity and the duality of man that he’s sure would be extremely fascinating if his brain wasn’t doing enough rapid emotional math to drown it out. Because if Amalia is Dear Friend and he’s in love with Dear Friend and he hates Amalia but he _doesn’t_ hate Amalia anymore (just like that?) and she doesn’t hate him then…

Amalia laughs and breaks his concentration. “You know what’s funny? Anyone else looking at us who missed the first part of the conversation would see us in here with the wine and the talking and think we were on a date. Isn’t that hysterical?”

He laughs nervously. “Ha. Hysterical,” he echoes, vowing to strangle Ladislav. Or invite him to the wedding. 

Honestly, at this point it’s kind of a tossup.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I come up with the idea first or did I come up with the pun title and work out what story to tell from that? The world may never know.


End file.
